


Humans and Machines

by pearlsongrey



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6068898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlsongrey/pseuds/pearlsongrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Really) quick character study of Raven Reyes in season 3 so far. WARNING: contains s3 spoilers up to 3x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humans and Machines

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the 100/am in no way affiliated with it. I just write stuff.
> 
> Not quite sure where this went, but I was feeling emotional about Raven and the crap she's been through in this season (and previous seasons honestly) so this happened. Please review and stuff if you like it :) Also, if you didn't catch it in the summary this (sorta) has some season 3 spoilers so if you haven't seen season 3 up to its current point, this is another warning.

Mechanics fix things; Raven knows this. She knows how to open something up and look inside, how to take something apart and put it back together, how to build something from metal and screws and a picture in her head. Raven fixes things; it’s what she does. Except, while her brain is an engine whirring, and her arms are hammers and wrenches swinging, her leg is simply… there. A broken part of the machine. Unfixable. 

Raven knows about wounds, too. (Not as much as Abby, of course, but she tries not to think about Abby too much because Abby leads to Clarke and Clarke leads to…) So, Raven knows about wounds. Superficial, sitting on the surface. Blood, if they’re deep; maybe a scar. But wounds heal. Wounds are supposed to heal, not burrow deep under your skin with an ever-present ache as a reminder. Bodies and machines can both be fixed, but for some reason Raven can’t seem to do it right now.

She tries not to look in the mirror anymore, tries to avoid her reflection in the smudged, cracked glass behind the bar, or the warped metal wall of the drop ship. She’s given up on studying her body (lips drawn thin, angular shoulders and brittle bones) trying to find that last piece that will make everything click in to place. She can’t reach inside herself, Raven knows. Screw in a loose frame, connect a few wires. Not this time.

She doesn’t belong here, she tells herself, still. She sees it in other people too. Broken machines. It’s Clarke’s eyes on the walk back to camp so many weeks ago; hollow eyes and hands that shook with an involuntary tremor. It’s the radio crackle of Bellamy’s voice when she told him about Gina; the final sputter of an engine trying to hold on for too long. They don’t belong here, she tells herself, none of them do. Grounded on this earth where the green is gone and the stars twinkle tauntingly every night. Raven’s hands are motors, the blood coursing through her veins is rocket fuel, but still she cannot lift herself off the ground. 

Humans and machines, Raven knows, can be fixed. For some reason, though, she can’t do it anymore.


End file.
